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sasju · 7 years

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How the Doctor changed my life.

It’s been years since I’ve posted/reposted anything on Tumblr, but I feel the need to share this since it’s had such a profound impact upon me. And maybe, just maybe, it might help someone else. People talk about how Doctor Who has changed their lives. Well, this is my story about how the Doctor changed my life.

Imagine that it’s late at night and you cannot sleep. All you can do is lie awake, thinking about all the bad things that have ever happened to you. Every misspoken word, every missed opportunity. You feel lost and alone, and not even the light from a bedside lamp can coax the darkness away.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had these negative thought cycles. Scenes from my life that replay over and over; the ones where I was unjustly accused of something, or where I felt helpless and alone. It’s only recently that I realised that these scenes all stem from my childhood.

I was diagnosed with anxiety at the age of 8, and major depression at 14. I was prescribed antidepressants at 18, and at the same time I began Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. For a while my life began to settle. I went to university. I got a job. I met my partner and we started a life together. But I could never fully shake the negative thinking cycles completely.

I’m now 32 years old.

This past year I’ve found myself losing control over many aspects of my life, so I once again sought help. My therapist explained that my negative thought cycles were schemas (important beliefs and feelings about myself) formed during my childhood when a specific need was not met. He then suggested that we look into memory reimagining, where I relive a specific scene and rewrite the ending to have a responsible adult defending me. This responsible adult could be anyone, real or imaginary. It came as no surprise to those who knew me when I told my therapist that I wanted the responsible adult to be the Doctor.

I’ve loved Doctor Who for what feels like forever. My mum and dad are both Whovians; I was named after Sarah Jane Smith (and my sister after Zoe Harriet). The very first episode I remember watching was The Time Warrior. The Doctor, to me, has always been the “wise old man” archetype (even when played by Matt Smith!), and it was this aspect of his character that I needed.

When I replay these negative memories, I often find myself returning to one memory in particular. I was in Grade 3 (so about 9 years old). It was straight after lunch-time on a warm Friday afternoon, and my class and the class from nextdoor were crammed into one room for a reason that has since escaped my memory. The swampy was blowing humid air on us, and there was a sense of restlessness at the thought of escaping school for the weekend. I was sitting at one of the back tables; my friend Meredith was beside me, and the others were fourth graders who have become little more than nameless faces. The teacher from nextdoor’s class, Mrs P, stood at the doorway between the classrooms behind me, a looming presence over my left shoulder. Mrs P had a reputation for being a very unpleasant lady. She was stern, with thick-rimmed glasses that she’d pull down her nose to glare at your over. I was highly anxious around her, so I was always aware of where she was if we were in close proximity. My teacher, Mr W, was most likely explaining what the classes were doing for the afternoon. We had colouring sheets and pencils in front of us, but I paid little attention to them. I remember a sharp stabbing pain at the lower left rib cage, being able to take only shallow breaths, and a sense of vagueness (which, I found out later that day, was due to slipping on the playground and falling onto my stomach during lunch, fracturing a rib and bruising my spleen).

The others at the table had started colouring in their sheets as Mr W was talking. It was a rule in our classroom that when the teacher was talking, we were not to be colouring or writing. “Pencils down, eyes up” was the saying. That’s why Mrs P approached my table. I physically jumped as she yelled at us for not paying attention. “The other students are able to wait to colour in their sheets, what makes you so special?”

My heartbeat was rapid from the fright, and my anxiety began to kick in at being chastised. My constant need to seek approval from everyone felt shattered. Pointing out that I hadn’t been colouring would have been fruitless. Mrs P was one of those teachers who was never wrong. And besides, I was incredibly shy and would never have been able to say such things to her even if I’d wanted to.

The others on my table put down their pencils and listened to Mr W. I was now anxious as well as in pain. When I’m anxious I tend to fiddle with things. My bracelet, the cuffs of my shirt, or even pencils on the table. I’m usually not aware that I do this, but the repetitive moment tends to have a calming effect. So I began fiddling with a pencil by flicking in between my fingers.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” came a booming voice from behind me. At first I didn’t realise that it was directed at me. I hadn’t been doing anything wrong. But then I realised that the rest of the class was looking at me. Mrs P told me to stand up. Confused, I quietly did so. She then proceeded to yell at me for colouring in the sheet after I had just been told not to. I was being made an example of. It was humiliating, It was terrifying. It was demoralising. I remember being too afraid to move - too afraid to speak! Tears were streaming down my face. I wanted to disappear, vanish from existence. I wanted to be anywhere but THERE! Mrs P told me to sit back down and to see her at the end of the school day for extra homework.

Usually, this is where the memory ends. Sometimes it replays over and over in my mind. Other times just the once is enough for me to break down. 24 years after it happened and I still cannot let it go.

As of today, however, the story has been rewritten.

My therapist prompted the scene to continue. “You hear a soft whirring sound coming from the corner of the room. Wind blows the colouring sheets off the tables. The whirring becomes louder and louder, and a big blue box now stands where before there was nothing. The door to the blue box opens.” My therapist asks, “What does that sound mean to you?” Hope.

Out comes the Doctor. He knows what just happened. He’s seen how hurt I am, how embarrased, how scared. He kneels down and puts a hand on my shoulder. The touch is reassuring, a gesture to let me know that he is there for me. He looks at me and says, “It’s ok. It will be ok. Even if it doesn’t seem like it now. Even if you feel like your world has just shattered. There’s always hope.” Then he proceeds to defend me to Mr P. He was able to say everything that I was too scared to. Everything that I’d spent the next 24 years wishing I’d said.

“Look at her colouring sheet! Go on, take a look!” Mrs P grabs the sheet of paper, noticing that there is no colour on it. “If Sarah were colouring in, surely there’d be colour somewhere on that page.”

Mrs P is, in my mind, a little annoyed that someone is questioning her. She bites back with, “Well, she shouldn’t have been fiddling with her pencil!”

“And do you know WHY she was fiddling with her pencil? Did it ever occur to you to stop and ask if anything was wrong? I know that childhood anxiety wasn’t commonly diagnosed in the early 90s, but anyone with half a mind can see that it’s a coping mechanism. And to make her stand up, to make an example of her, to yell at her in front of her peers, to ridicule and belittle her - that’s not what I’d expect from a teacher. That’s what I’d expect from someone who finds pleasure in hurting others.”

And in that moment, I feel relief. I look up, realising that I’m not the only child in the room who’s glad that someone has stood up to Mrs P. When once I thought myself alone, I now realised that I was just one of many children she terrorised. The Doctor turned back to me before he left, scanning me with his sonic screwdriver. “And you’ve got a fractured rib and a bruised spleen. Better get your mother to drive you to the hospital after school.” And with that he was gone.

And I laughed. I laughed at the look on her face as the Doctor told her off! I laughed at the idea of being defended by an imaginary character in my head. And I laughed because, after 24 years, I was finally able to forgive Mrs P for what she did. I cannot imagine that memory without the Doctor showing up now. What was once a powerful and harmful schema has now been rewritten into the story I have just told you.

So there you have it. That’s how the Doctor changed my life.

#Doctor Who #DW #depression #anxiety #terrible teachers #therapy #my story

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